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Best Famous Sympathy Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sympathy poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sympathy poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sympathy poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of sympathy poems.

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Written by | |

Sympathy

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
   When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
   When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
   Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
   And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
   When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
   But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!


Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | |

To Eva

O FAIR and stately maid whose eyes 
Were kindled in the upper skies 
At the same torch that lighted mine; 
For so I must interpret still 
Thy sweet dominion o'er my will 5 
A sympathy divine.
Ah! let me blameless gaze upon Features that seem at heart my own; Nor fear those watchful sentinels Who charm the more their glance forbids 10 Chaste-glowing underneath their lids With fire that draws while it repels.


Written by Henry David Thoreau | |

Let such pure hate still underprop

 "Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.
" Let such pure hate still underprop Our love, that we may be Each other's conscience, And have our sympathy Mainly from thence.
We'll one another treat like gods, And all the faith we have In virtue and in truth, bestow On either, and suspicion leave To gods below.
Two solitary stars-- Unmeasured systems far Between us roll; But by our conscious light we are Determined to one pole.
What need confound the sphere?-- Love can afford to wait; For it no hour's too late That witnesseth one duty's end, Or to another doth beginning lend.
It will subserve no use, More than the tints of flowers; Only the independent guest Frequents its bowers, Inherits its bequest.
No speech, though kind, has it; But kinder silence doles Unto its mates; By night consoles, By day congratulates.
What saith the tongue to tongue? What hearest ear of ear? By the decrees of fate From year to year, Does it communicate.
Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns; No trivial bridge of words, Or arch of boldest span, Can leap the moat that girds The sincere man.
No show of bolts and bars Can keep the foeman out, Or 'scape his secret mine, Who entered with the doubt That drew the line.
No warder at the gate Can let the friendly in; But, like the sun, o'er all He will the castle win, And shine along the wall.
There's nothing in the world I know That can escape from love, For every depth it goes below, And every height above.
It waits, as waits the sky, Until the clouds go by, Yet shines serenely on With an eternal day, Alike when they are gone, And when they stay.
Implacable is Love-- Foes may be bought or teased From their hostile intent, But he goes unappeased Who is on kindness bent.


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Written by Sir John Suckling | |

I prithee send me back my heart

 I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine;
For if from yours you will not part,
Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,
To find it were in vain;
For thou hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O Love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am in most doubt.
Then farewell care, and farewell woe; I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart, As much as she hath mine.


Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

Sympathy

 If I were only a little puppy, not your baby, mother dear, would
you say "No" to me if I tried to eat from your dish?
Would you drive me off, saying to me, "Get away, you naughty
little puppy?"
Then go, mother, go! I will never come to you when you call
me, and never let you feed me any more.
If I were only a little green parrot, and not your baby, mother dear, would you keep me chained lest I should fly away? Would you shake your finger at me and say, "What an ungrateful wretch of a bird! It is gnawing at its chain day and night?" The go, mother, go! I will run away into the woods; I will never let you take me in your arms again.


Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

Sympathy

 Therefore I dare reveal my private woe, 
The secret blots of my imperfect heart, 
Nor strive to shrink or swell mine own desert, 
Nor beautify nor hide.
For this I know, That even as I am, thou also art.
Thou past heroic forms unmoved shalt go, To pause and bide with me, to whisper low: "Not I alone am weak, not I apart Must suffer, struggle, conquer day by day.
Here is my very cross by strangers borne, Here is my bosom-sin wherefrom I pray Hourly deliverance--this my rose, my thorn.
This woman my soul's need can understand, Stretching o'er silent gulfs her sister hand.
"


Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

Sympathy

 I know what the caged bird feels, alas! 
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; 
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, 
And the river flows like a stream of glass; 
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, 
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals-- 
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing 
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; 
For he must fly back to his perch and cling 
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; 
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars 
And they pulse again with a keener sting-- 
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, 
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,-- 
When he beats his bars and he would be free; 
It is not a carol of joy or glee, 
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, 
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-- 
I know why the caged bird sings!


Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET CXVII.

SONNET CXVII.

Che fai, alma? che pensi? avrem mai pace?

DIALOGUE OF THE POET WITH HIS HEART.

P.
       What actions fire thee, and what musings fill?
Soul! is it peace, or truce, or war eterne?
H.
   Our lot I know not, but, as I discern,
Her bright eyes favour not our cherish'd ill.
P.
   What profit, with those eyes if she at will
Makes us in summer freeze, in winter burn?
H.
   From him, not her those orbs their movement learn.
[Pg 147]P.
   What's he to us, she sees it and is still.
H.
   Sometimes, though mute the tongue, the heart laments
Fondly, and, though the face be calm and bright,
Bleeds inly, where no eye beholds its grief.
P.
   Nathless the mind not thus itself contents,
Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite,
For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.
Macgregor.
P.
       What act, what dream, absorbs thee, O my soul?
Say, must we peace, a truce, or warfare hail?
H.
   Our fate I know not; but her eyes unveil
The grief our woe doth in her heart enrol.
P.
   But that is vain, since by her eyes' control
With nature I no sympathy inhale.
H.
   Yet guiltless she, for Love doth there prevail.
P.
   No balm to me, since she will not condole.
H.
   When man is mute, how oft the spirit grieves,
In clamorous woe! how oft the sparkling eye
Belies the inward tear, where none can gaze!
P.
   Yet restless still, the grief the mind conceives
Is not dispell'd, but stagnant seems to lie.
The wretched hope not, though hope aid might raise.
Wollaston.


Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET LXXIX.

SONNET LXXIX.

L' aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo.

HE TELLS HER IN SLEEP OF HIS SUFFERINGS, AND, OVERCOME BY HER SYMPATHY, AWAKES.

On my oft-troubled sleep my sacred air
So softly breathes, at last I courage take,
To tell her of my past and present ache,
Which never in her life my heart did dare.
I first that glance so full of love declare
Which served my lifelong torment to awake,
Next, how, content and wretched for her sake,
Love day by day my tost heart knew to tear.
She speaks not, but, with pity's dewy trace,
Intently looks on me, and gently sighs,
While pure and lustrous tears begem her face;
My spirit, which her sorrow fiercely tries,
So to behold her weep with anger burns,
And freed from slumber to itself returns.
Macgregor.


Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET XCVIII.

[Pg 113]

SONNET XCVIII.

Quel vago impallidir che 'l dolce riso.

LEAVE-TAKING.

That witching paleness, which with cloud of love
Veil'd her sweet smile, majestically bright,
So thrill'd my heart, that from the bosom's night
Midway to meet it on her face it strove.
Then learnt I how, 'mid realms of joy above,
The blest behold the blest: in such pure light
I scann'd her tender thought, to others' sight
Viewless!—but my fond glances would not rove.
Each angel grace, each lowly courtesy,
E'er traced in dame by Love's soft power inspired,
Would seem but foils to those which prompt my lay:
Upon the ground was cast her gentle eye,
And still methought, though silent, she inquired,
"What bears my faithful friend so soon, so far away?"
Wrangham.
There was a touching paleness on her face,
Which chased her smiles, but such sweet union made
Of pensive majesty and heavenly grace,
As if a passing cloud had veil'd her with its shade;
Then knew I how the blessed ones above
Gaze on each other in their perfect bliss,
For never yet was look of mortal love
So pure, so tender, so serene as this.
The softest glance fond woman ever sent
To him she loved, would cold and rayless be
Compared to this, which she divinely bent
Earthward, with angel sympathy, on me,
That seem'd with speechless tenderness to say,
"Who takes from me my faithful friend away?"
E.
(New Monthly Magazine.
)


Written by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Sympathy

" Love includes sympathy, but sympathy does not love.
" Ehsan Sehgal


Written by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Soft hearts

"Unsympathy ful and stone hearts are the place of evils, angels only stay in the hearts that are soft and sympathy ful.
" Ehsan Sehgal


Written by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Advantage

"Never take advantage of anyone's love, trust, sincerity, sympathy, tolerant and weakness, nor underestimate anyone's way of thinking and action.
" Ehsan Sehgal


Written by Ellis Parker Butler | |

Millennium

 The great millennium is at hand.
Redder apples grow on the tree.
A saxophone is in ev’ry band.
Brandy no longer taints our tea.
Dimples smile in the red-rouged knee.
The dowagers are no longer fat.
Radio now makes safe the sea— And the Turk has bought him a derby hat.
Even our sauerkraut now is canned.
Verse is a dangsight more than free.
A “highboy” now is the old dish stand.
Ev’ry flapper has her night key.
Chopin is jazzed into melody.
A child is a “kiddie” and not a “brat.
” Bosses and miners at last agree— And the Turk has bought him a derby hat.
All firewaters are bravely banned.
There is a ballot for every she.
The hairpin now is a contraband.
A New York mayor gets some sympathy.
My dealer brings some coal to me.
The plumber is an aristocrat.
In Miami all millionaires may be— And the Turk has bought him a derby hat.
Son, the millennium is at hand! What though Armenians be mashed flat? The world is getting just perfectly grand, For the Turk has bought him a derby hat.


Written by Ellis Parker Butler | |

A Study In Feeling

 To be a great musician you must be a man of moods,
You have to be, to understand sonatas and etudes.
To execute pianos and to fiddle with success, With sympathy and feeling you must fairly effervesce; It was so with Paganini, Remenzi and Cho-pang, And so it was with Peterkin Von Gabriel O’Lang.
Monsieur O’Lang had sympathy to such a great degree.
No virtuoso ever lived was quite so great as he; He was either very happy or very, very sad; He was always feeling heavenly or oppositely bad; In fact, so sympathetic that he either must enthuse Or have the dumps; feel ecstacy or flounder in the blues.
So all agreed that Peterkin Von Gabriel O’Lang Was the greatest violinist in the virtuoso gang.
The ladies bought his photographs and put them on the shelves In the place of greatest honor, right beside those of themselves; They gladly gave ten dollars for a stiff backed parquette chair.
And sat in mouth-wide happiness a-looking at his hair.
I say “a looking at his hair,” I mean just what I say, For no one ever had a chance to hear P.
O’Lang play; So subtle was his sympathy, so highly strung was he, His moods were barometric to the very last degree; The slightest change of weather would react upon his brain, And fill his soul with joyousness or murder it with pain.
And when his soul was troubled he had not the heart to play.
But let his head droop sadly down in such a soulful way, That every one that saw him declared it was worth twice (And some there were said three times) the large admission price; And all were quite unanimous and said it would be crude For such a man to fiddle when he wasn’t in the mood.
But when his soul was filled with joy he tossed his flowing hair And waved his violin-bow in great circles in the air; Ecstaticly he flourished it, for so his spirit thrilled, Thus only could he show the joy with which his heart was filled; And so he waved it up and down and ’round and out and in,— But he never, never, NEVER touched it to his violin!